What is this man holding?
The Guardian (http://bit.ly/1MoTYhp) is reporting the unearthing of only the 2nd known picture of Billy The Kid. Bought for $2 in a junk shop in Fresno, California it’s expected to fetch a 7-figure sum at auction. That’s Billy on the left playing croquet. The picture was taken in Mexico in 1878. Billy would have been 18. 3 years later he was shot dead by James Coburn..er..Pat Garrett. Obviously cue Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door
Billy’s 11 years old in this clip
“Danger! Soft Verges. 4ft Drop. Not recommended for HGVs turning.”
Ahh_Bisto on Neo-Psychedelia: The 1980s Wormhole Part 1
Do you remember the first time you listened to music on headphones?
It is not these well-fed long-haired men that I fear, but the pale and the hungry-looking.
Critics have accused Kenny Rogers of miming his words on stage and of putting in a wooden performance despite the plasticity on display. They also claim there is evidence that his endless (islands in the) stream of face lifts coupled with the accumulated effects of endless plastic surgery operations have reduced his overall body mass.
What do you think?
When the devil came he was not red He was red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue I can sing a rainbow, death metal rainbow Sing along with me
My eldest daughter has started high school and is quickly starting to learn that some people in the world are just nasty because they can be, particularly online and on social media. Luckily she’s made of sterner stuff and has bounced back into her groove. To help her on her way I showed her some of Jimmy Kimmel’s mean tweets, a section of his show where celebrities read out a mean tweet that has been written about them. She soon cottoned on to the idea that this very public display of something that could be dispiriting and upsetting for the recipient was a cathartic way of blowing the nastiness projected back up the perpetrator’s own fundament. Like me she also thought some of the original tweets were funny. I told her it was OK to laugh but I was pleased that she took her lead from the reactions.
There’s quite a few clips online for Mean Tweets. The reactions of celebs vary with some looking quite shocked at the vitriol being thrown at them. My all-time favourite reaction is from Chris Pratt in this clip which I think is the perfect combination of “I don’t give a shit” and “Wow, » Continue Reading.
The earth’s rotation.
A Minajerie of Musical Butts
We’ve all done it. We’ve all got our own stories to tell about doing it. But how do you do it?
When I’ve done it invariably ends up like this:
Women like to bite and punch Men like to lick and fondle
… and recorded them at Hitsville they might sound a bit like this.
Diane Coffee – Everyday
Author:Emily St. John Mandel
The wonder of this book is its facility to use a future post-apocalyptic Earth principally as a motif-like backdrop and global “prop” to remind us individually how precious today is and how equally important and significant our memory of it is tomorrow and the next day, and the next. This book easily criss-crosses genres to deliver, at its heart, a simple paean to the importance of the simple details in life – especially those small acts of kindness and tenderness, often random and instinctual – in a complex and troubled world that is unable to prevent catastrophe despite our narcissistic amazement with ourselves. The butterfly effects of an actor dying of a heart-attack on stage gradually and convincingly outweigh the devastating effects of a global flu epidemic that wipes out over 99% of the population. The story is told episodically, jumping backwards and forwards in time, but Mandel cleverly and artfully explores her characters and their significance in the context of one man’s death before the Apocalypse in a way that is a marvel of the art of story-telling as a slow and profound reveal of humanity’s capacity to survive and adapt; her writing is like » Continue Reading.
There is a magazine called Glamour. Alas, not a bible for all things Marc Bolan and The Sweet but a magazine for Women. Said magazine recently ran a piece entitled ’13 Little Things That Can Make Men Fall Hard for You’. I’d imagined a stray foot from a Word Bird at the top of a flight of concrete stairs or a quick shove in the back on an ungritted icy pavement would do the trick until Ma Bisto explained that this was an advice list for women looking to go the extra mile to keep their man happy. Or the dating equivalent of Viz’s Top Tips. Apparently the list has made many despair at its insistence on putting the onus on women to revert to a 1950’s level of submissiveness. Ma Bisto and I decided to try out all 13 of the ‘Little Things’ to see if I would fall hard or simply collapse flaccid.
Year: 1971 Director: Robert Altman
The psychological horror film, Images, is one of Robert Altman’s lesser-known films. It was released in 1971, between more familiar and popular films from the director; his revisionist Western, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, and his revisionist and ironic treatment of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye.
Images is not typical Altman. In many respects it is a more conventional and commodified film to the style of film-making closely associated with him: multi-layered stories, characters cross-talking, a withering and languid “anti-establishment” gaze that suggests everyone involved, including the viewer, is gingerly working their way through a stalled recovery from a bad 60’s trip.
Images is a tight chamber piece, filmed mostly with interiors and with a limited cast. The plot, such as it is, is simple and functional. So far so normal. The conventionality and simplicity of plot and setting are important because what Altman wants to do is to warp our perceptions of normality. What we witness in Images is how different another person’s normality can become over the course of the film. That person is Cathryn, portrayed by Susannah York. She is a children’s author, married without children and living what appears at first » Continue Reading.
Rodney Dangerfield specialised in gatecrashing films, even the ones he was headlining.
In Caddyshack he played nouveau-riche property developer, Al Czervik, with all the understatement of a psychotic bull on heat. He’s Groucho Marx channelling Tony Montana (think, “Say hello to my little putter”). Small wonder Scarface’s writer, Oliver Stone, cast him as Mallory’s abusive father in Natural Born Killers. Groucho famously quipped that he’d refuse to join any club that was prepared to accept him as a member. Dangerfield’s Czervik has no such scruples but then again no one is prepared to accept him, on any level. Dressed permanently like a clown’s idea of a porn star on a first date Dangerfield doesn’t so much chew the scenery in Caddyshack as dry hump it, eyes permanently bulging in extremis as he ejaculates each punchline. There are few scenes with him alongside his comedic co-stars Bill Murray and Chevy Chase. Perhaps their agents took the decision to keep the young turks away from the old lion on career health and safety grounds. Dangerfield physically dominates scenes, walking and twitching into view like some kind of jive-ass artillery prior to verbally razing everything to the ground; other characters, no matter » Continue Reading.
A chance conversation with a neighbour earlier included him more or less saying the words in the title. I was transported back 30 odd years to the time I saw Ted Chippington. I think The Sea Monster (Jo Brand) might have been on the same night. Like Frank Sidebottom Ted was someone guaranteed to polarise an audience. A quick Google and I found this clip of Ted on Pebble Mill which illustrates that schism in how people responded to his act. Incredible to think that back then there were real-life equivalents of Viz characters you could see on a comedy night or as the support act for some indie band or maybe on some late night C4 yoof programme. I wondered if knowing who Ted Chippington is is the comedy equivalent of knowing who the musicians Woody Woodmansey or “Fletch” are; people I assume are common knowledge on The Afterword but nowhere else.
Apparently Ted is performing again and is on Twitter. Here’s one of his tweets:
“Fruit and urinal give a bad name to cakes everywhere”
Have Afterworders any other examples of lesser known heroes from the world of comedy?
At the old Afterword site I posted a series of playlists around electronic and experimental music I enjoyed listening to. Here’s a new playlist of tracks released over the past few months that I’ve been enjoying. I know next to nothing about most of these artists but that is often integral to my enjoyment of the music. Hopefully you’ll enjoy some of the tracks as well.
Name: GravyBoy Age: The Romantic Era (Sagittarian) Location: Let me just check my GPS (Gorgeous Positioning System)….Travelodge, Leeds Central Height: 5’6″ (6’1″ in Cuban Heels) Weight: 12.5 stone (17 stone in Cuban Heels) Languages spoken: English and Love Status: Married, but we have an understanding. I think. Job: Innovation Sherpa Gender: I don’t believe in genders or having an agenda Ethnicity: I like Thai Smoking Habits: Fish mainly My limits are: Nutbush City and central Leeds
It’s not about me, it’s about you. When we meet we will connect. In that connection I will make you feel that it’s all about you and only you. I will listen to your problems and let you know that solving them is all about you. I will listen to your hopes and dreams and let you know that making them real is all about you. I will remain a mystery. I will listen with all my senses: my mind, my eyes, my nose, my hands, my fingers, my lips, my tongue. In other words, not just with my ears.
Preferences and encounters I am open to:
You must be good with your hands. I struggle with jar lids. I want » Continue Reading.
Ooh sonic teutonic baby. Mmm.
I’m one of a small but significant group of people who continues to look forward to the release of McCartney III. I love its’ two predecessors. McCartney I and McCartney II are both, in their own way, evidence of Paul in retreat, introspective, insular but inspired; to write and record music that combines his accessibility and popularity with a much needed adrenaline burst of unpredictability and inscrutability. Paul missed The Beatles but would anyone miss him underlined McCartney I. The need for McCartney II is less obvious: possibly contractual, possibly self-indulgent, possibly rash, possibly confessional.
Some call these albums half-baked (Danny Baker was no fan of McCartney II) but I find their work-in-progress vibe in itself fascinating. It’s the person as much as the music that is in development; regrouping, reorganising and reassessing. By revealing something more of the inner workings of Paul’s song-writing in the self-organisation – evidence often gets lost, either in wonderment or in antipathy, depending on where you stand on fully polished solo/Wings McCartney – these albums seem to reboot, in equal measure, both the artist and the fan.
McCartney II is my personal favourite. I was 13 when it came out. I’d grown up with » Continue Reading.
My favourite use of parentheses in rock – because it’s the sexiest ever ice-breaker at social gatherings to have a favourite use of parentheses in rock – is (Get A) Grip (On Yourself) by The Stranglers. I particularly like the way the parentheses get a grip on the word ‘Grip’. It takes my enjoyment of the song to a whole new metaphorical and intellectual level and instantly sets me apart from Donald Trump.
What’s the difference between Hepcats and Squares? Only Squares use .
You can have that [one].
I don’t want to overstate the importance of parentheses in rock but take it as read that you can flirt like mad with your wife’s/husband’s work colleagues without anyone thinking it untoward or too familiar if you squeeze a Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) or a Bang A Gong (Get It On) – the latter as part of a crowd-pleasing Leslie Phillips impersonation – into the more lascivious topics of your conversation such as the amount of money you’ve saved on your weekly shop by switching to Aldi or whether or not to buy holiday Euros now or at the last minute given the Greek situation.
My youngest daughter is dressed and ready for school but is already in her own world. It’s this morning, around 7.00am. The air in the house is thankfully cool and vibrant once again after the humid torpor of the past few days that rendered us all mute and distracted from the normal family sensibilities. She stands in her bedroom lost in thought and looks out of her window to the back garden below and the fields and woods beyond. The sun is streaming through and bathes her in its muted warmth. She lifts the recorder to her lips and practises the piece she’ll soon be performing at the summer fair. I’ve been away on business for what seems like a lifetime and it’s my first opportunity to hear her play this particular melody. She doesn’t see me hovering at her door. As she plays her head bobs slowly and assuredly and I look at the shadow cast on the wall behind her. It is festooned with prints and postcards she has collected of Albert Irvin’s child-like abstracts and Gary Hume’s minimalist birds of bright colours, mingled with her own rainbow artwork of puffins, pufflings and assorted panoramas. With her red » Continue Reading.
What do you call a man who throws his jacket across the room?
Answers on the back of a cheque for £10M please.
I ordered a French takeaway last night: a big dish of brown mushrooms. Nothing beats a Cèpe Platter take out.
As long as Interpol allows it, I’m here all week.